


sweet release

by probee



Category: NCIS
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Mother's Day, because they are a happy little family now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24121849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probee/pseuds/probee
Summary: A mother teaches her daughter a life lesson in the kitchen.
Relationships: Ziva David/Anthony DiNozzo
Kudos: 32





	sweet release

The whirring of the motor drowns out the noise around them filtering in from the bustle of city life. Drowns out the emotions bouncing around in her mind like a tennis ball, up and down and back and forth and seemingly unable to come to a stop.  
  
Leaning on the kitchen counter (for it is now her kitchen, the way this is now _home_ , for good), she stands transfixed at the spinning of the paddle inside the mixer bowl, beating the butter and sugar together into submission, unaware that her breathing seems to fall in time to its circular rhythm. The simple action brings a surprising calmness to her, one she realizes she hasn’t felt in weeks. Slow and steady, she spoons the flour to the mixture, watching separate entities meld into something else entirely.  
  
  
  
_“Ima, what are you doing?”  
  
The little girl barrels into the room, the way she seems to do everything, and even at five years old, she has an insatiable curiosity and a conviction that she should be included in everything that goes on around here, never wanting to miss out on any of the fun.  
  
“Ah, magic,” the woman answers, with a hint of mischief gleaming in her eyes. Her daughter’s constant state of wonder amuses her to no end, and even on their bad days, she can’t believe something so perfect ever came from the two of them. She is their one good thing.  
  
The child’s eyebrows crease, because surely, magic requires a little more ceremony and grandeur than an apron and a big bowl. Her mother chuckles in gest, the seriousness in her sweet face belying her tender years. She admires the fact that the girl has an innate sense of skepticism, wanting to make sense of her world, small though it may be for now, and she finds, not for the first time, a rising swell of pride overcome her. Her daughter will indeed be whatever she wishes to be, with a mind like that.  
  
“Bring the stool over and I can show you.” Big brown eyes light up at the invitation, and before she can even make room at the counter, the girl has plunked the step stool next to her mother, climbing up with a stomp of determination as she sidles up to get a better view of the spectacle.  
  
_  
“We, _my curious daughter, are making cookies today.”  
  
She squeals in delight and hops on her perch, her already-messy head of dark curls threatening to break loose from the clip struggling to keep it out of her face. She hesitates, though, realizing this affair is an anomaly in their routine.  
  
“How come?”  
  
“No reason. I just felt like it.”  
  
The child considers the answer, since baking sweets is usually reserved for special occasions in their home, but she smartly decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. So accustomed is she to being left out of the grown-ups’ activities, she relishes the chance to take part in this serious undertaking. And she is_ very _serious about cookies.  
  
“Here, take this spoon, and you can add the mixture to the bowl while I stir, how does that sound?” The child nods, and solemnly drops one spoonful of the powder into the bowl at a time at her mother’s prompting, her eyes growing wide in anticipation as the creamy concoction in the bowl forms into a dough with each successive addition.  
  
“See? I told you,_ magic.”  
  
_The girl grins, the rise in the apples of her cheeks a tacit agreement that_ yes, _this is indeed magical. The team effort yields impressive results, and soon, it is time for the pièce de résistance.  
  
“Now comes the best part. We must add the chocolate chips.” She tries to keep a straight face, as though she were a _chef de mission, _but her daughter’s ear-to-ear grin and trembling excitement get the best of her, and she laughs along with her. It is the moments like these where she believes that maybe, just maybe, she will be happy again one day.  
  
She hands the girl the cup containing their bounty, and gives her the go-ahead to start pouring it into the batter, watching their witches’ brew come to life. “Careful, metuka, not too many at once, or else I won’t be able to stir them all in. You wait until they’re all blended into the dough, and then you add more.”  
  
The girl holds the cup with two hands, taking the counsel to heart, not wanting to disrupt what is clearly the crescendo of their baking experience thus far. Her mother grips the spoon, finding more resistance with each swipe as the dough hardens and she strains to fold the chips in.  
  
“We must work very hard to get our prize, yes?”  
  
The girl doesn’t answer, wholly entranced in their dance, wanting to complete each step perfectly to reap the largest rewards at the end. (She is nothing if not goal-oriented.) They work in tandem, a shake of the cup, a stir of the spoon, until finally, there is nothing left to mix.  
  
The jingle of the keys in the front door turns two raven-haired heads towards the sound, breaking their concentration. Soon, the familiar sound of heavy footsteps tracking down the hall raises their anticipation, until the figure looms in the doorway.  
  
“Aba!”  
  
The little girl nearly trips as she jumps off the stool and launches herself at her father, grabbing his legs with wild abandon and innocence that will be gone far too soon. The towering man smiles down at her and ruffles her hair, while extricating himself from her lock-grip behind him. He steps around her to lean over and place a kiss on his wife’s cheek, eliciting a tight smile in response, though the look in her eyes shows she is miles away.  
  
“Aba! We’re baking!”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yes! Chocolate chip cookies!”  
  
“Ah,_ chocolate chip cookies. _Your mother must have been reading one of her American magazines again. Aren’t we lucky?”  
  
Her husband says this in a tone that would denote good cheer to the untrained ear, but to her his eyes betray the slight tinge of condescension seeping through his words. The two adults share a look, each daring the other to say what they really mean, until the man relents, and with a defiant raise of her chin, the woman resumes the task at hand, busying herself until he ends the standoff and stalks past her through the kitchen, loosening his tie as he swaggers away.  
  
Mercifully, their daughter appears to be oblivious to the tension in the room, more concerned with her special project. Proclaiming it finished, her mother neatly wraps the bowl in cling wrap and places it in the fridge, which causes her to furrow her brow in frustration once again.  
  
“Ima, what are you doing? Don’t we have to put the cookies in the oven?”  
  
“Ah, but first, we must chill the dough and let it rest for a few hours.”  
  
“A few hours?!”  
  
She laughs at the child’s indignant pout, in spite of herself. These are the moments that are gone too soon.  
  
“Yes, Ziva, we must be patient. It may seem like a long wait right now, but giving it the time it needs to come together will make it taste sweeter in the end. All good things come to those who wait.”  
  
The child absorbs the words as though she’s been handed a secret code, though she isn’t yet convinced. Down the hall, they hear a muffled bang as the bedroom door slams shut._  
  
  
  
“Ima?”  
  
The sweetest voice she’s ever heard wakes her from her reverie.  
  
“Ima? What are you doing?”  
  
Ziva shifts her gaze to the little girl by her side tugging at her shirt. She’s just come running from her room, the clattering in the kitchen signalling that there is something happening without her, and she’ll be damned if she’s going to miss the action. The woman beams at her daughter, thankful for every second she has with her.  
  
“Well, Tali, I am making us some cookies.”  
  
She gasps excitedly and her eyes widen.  
  
“But Ima, it’s Mother’s Day! I thought _we_ were supposed to cook for _you_ today. That’s what Daddy said.”  
  
“And you made a wonderful breakfast, _metuka_. Now it is time for me to make something for _my_ Ima.”  
  
“Your ima?” At five years old, Tali is only beginning to grasp the complexities of her family tree, with so many names uttered in hushed, fleeting mentions. All she understands is that she doesn’t have a _mamie_ like most of her classmates, and until recently, even her mother was but an abstract concept in her growing reality. Confusion plays all over her face as she wonders if maybe there will be yet another family member matriculating out of thin air.  
  
Ziva smiles, a hint of sadness looming at the corners of her mouth. “Yes. My ima used to make these cookies when I was a little girl, and I thought we could make these to celebrate her today, too.”  
  
“Can I help?  
  
“Absolutely. Go wash your hands, then grab your step stool and come join me.”  
  
Tali does as she’s told and maneuvers around her mom to grab the small step from the cupboard under the sink and finds a spot to get the most advantageous view of the counter. Ziva hands her the bowl full of the flour mixture and instructs her on how to add it to the stand mixer bit by bit, and together they watch their creation come to life.  
  
“You ready for the best part?” The girl bites her lip in anticipation. “ _You_ , my Tali, get to pour in the chocolate chips.”  
  
“ _Cool_! How much do I put in?” she asks as her mother hands her the bag of sweets.  
  
Ziva reads the awe in her daughter’s face and smiles, radiating from the inside out. “Up to you, honey.”  
  
Tali’s jaw drops like it did on Christmas morning, and she races to rip open the bag and dump its contents into the bowl.  
  
“ _Careful_ ,” her mother warns, “just a little bit at a time, or else the paddle can’t turn and mix our dough.”  
  
“Oh,” Tali nods in utter seriousness, and proceeds to gingerly place a few chips at a time into the bowl, making Ziva chuckle at her commitment to the act. How did she ever get to be so lucky?  
  
Keys jingle in the front door just off the kitchen, but mother and daughter are too consumed by their bake-off to tear their eyes away. Footsteps march through the entry and sound louder as they approach the kitchen, a gentle _thud_ marking the setting of grocery bags on the floor by their side. Next, Ziva feels large arms wrap around her waist and a chin poking over her shoulder to spy on their craft.  
  
“Hi Daddy!” Tali greets from her perch.  
  
“Hi Peanut. Watcha girls doin’?”  
  
“We’re making cookies!”  
  
“ _No way_. I can’t wait!” In one fell swoop, he reaches around his partner and sticks his finger into the bowl, scooping a large clump of dough up and into his mouth. “Mmm-mmm!”  
  
“ _To-ny!_ ” “ _Dad-dy_!” Two sets of equally indignant voices chastise, but he cackles in his best movie-villain laugh, escaping their clutches just in the knick of time. By now, Ziva has her hands on her hips and shoots him a steely glare across the kitchen island, and he answers with the cockiest of grins he knows will both annoy and delight her. As expected, he sees the corners of her mouth twitch upwards, despite her best efforts to remain stern, and he can tell he’s won this challenge.  
  
(He could spend every waking moment of his life chasing after that look.)  
  
“Daddy, we’re making these for _Ima’s_ ima, for Mother’s Day,” Tali points out matter-of-factly, and with that his expression softens. He searches for Ziva’s across the room, and they lock eyes, conducting a silent conversation though they are feet apart. The girl is too young to understand the meaning behind her mother’s gesture, the catharsis that comes from commemorating those no longer around, but he is grateful her childhood protects her from that grief, at least for now. This is something they are all getting used to, but thankfully, are getting used to it all together.  
  
“Well, Tal, I think that is an excellent idea, and these cookies are going to be out of this world. Aren’t we lucky we have Ima around to show us how to do it?”  
  
“Yep,” she answers easily, as if she didn’t just make her mother’s heart explode from sheer gratitude and love. As if she never believed she could ever be this happy again, but day after day she is proven blessedly wrong.  
  
Suddenly, the room feels small and the air a tad stifling to Ziva, so she takes a breath to ground herself and bring herself back down to earth. (Because there is a time to mourn, but they have more pressing matters at hand.)  
  
“Okay, I think we are done here,” she announces, then rummages around until she finds the box of cling wrap in a drawer, from which she cuts a large piece to cover the bowl, and after that she places the dough in the fridge, finding two pairs of puzzled eyes staring at her from behind the door.  
  
“Why’d you do that?” Tali questions, but from the look on Tony’s face he may as well have asked her himself.  
  
“Well, we have to let the dough chill for a couple of hours.”  
  
“ _A couple of hours_?!” father and daughter whine in perfect harmony, clearly not expecting this turn of events. Ziva rolls her eyes at their predictability.  
  
“Yes, my _very_ impatient family, a couple of hours. Trust me, it is for the best. All good things come to those who wait.”  
  
Truer words were never spoken.  
  
“What are we supposed to do until then?!” Tali whimpers, her hopes of instant gratification suddenly deflated. To a kindergartner, two hours may as well be an eternity.  
  
“Why don’t we watch a movie?”  
  
The child’s spirits are revived once again. “Yeah! Which one?”  
  
“How about we let Daddy pick?” Ziva winks and shoots him a grin, one of those ones that will always make him weak in the knees. His eyes twinkle in return.  
  
“I know just the one. Let’s get the popcorn and we’re all set.”  
  
These very good things are all they’ll ever need.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Mother's Day to all of you who are so inclined! And a special Happy Mother's Day to our Ziva, who finally gets to celebrate it with her family for the first time in years.
> 
> (Also, my apologies if I didn't get the Hebrew terms of endearment right. Evidently I do not speak Hebrew, so blame Google. The French is all on me, though.)


End file.
